


The Second One Is Love

by ribbons



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-17
Updated: 2010-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-09 00:22:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ribbons/pseuds/ribbons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven days (and beyond) in the lives of Roger and Rafa. Takes place primarily during the 2009 ATP World Tour Finals in London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Days 1-5

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the LJ fedal_slash comm's winter ficathon, and originally posted there 29 January and 26 March 2010. The prompt was "seven days in the life of Rafa and Roger...could be seven days over the course of a month or even years." Grateful thanks to [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/maribella008/profile)[**maribella008**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/maribella008/) for providing multiple, detailed beta readings and massive heaps of encouragement, as well as alerting me to the presence of a custom handcuff-crafter in Barcelona. The blame for clunkers and darlings remaining in the mix is mine alone.
> 
> Disclaimer: No malice intended, no profit expected, and this fic be fictional -- although the gigglefit that starts it all [really happened](http://www.gototennisblog.com/2009/11/20/video-roger-federer-gets-the-giggles/).

> A man has two reasons for things that he does  
> The first one is pride and the second one is love  
> 
> 
> \- Hüsker Dü 
  
> 

 

**Friday, November 20, 2009**

When CNN _Backstory_ airs the outtakes of his gigglefits during his session with Pedro Pinto, Roger is away from the television, reading aloud to Myla from a German car magazine. Later in the evening, when he gets around to viewing the footage, he dissolves into laughter all over again, especially when the anchor declares, "I found that you CAN crack the calm and collected Federer. All it takes it a little bit of humor and a little bit of Spanish as well." When he finally calms down, two glasses of water later, Mirka is smirking at him, waiting to hand him a BlackBerry.

It's the one dedicated to his Players' Council activities, acting as his in-box for texts and voicemails from his colleagues around the world. It ensures that their messages don't get lost within the haystack of fanmail and business offers his staff sifts through daily, and it allows him to claim that every ATP player -- any region, any ranking -- has direct access to him. He doesn't carry it with him or check it every single day -- it's not the phone that buzzes when it's Mirka, his parents, or Rafa trying to reach him -- but it _is_ the number known to all the members of the Tour.

Including the members of the Spanish Armada. Roger accepts the BlackBerry with a cheerful grimace, bracing himself. Before long, he's howling into the sofa cushions: Lopez, Robredo, Ferrero, Moya, Ferrer -- they've each video-recorded themselves seductively undoing the top buttons of their polo shirts and murmuring sweet nothings in Spanish, and Roger understands just enough Spanish to make out what they're saying: _Oh, Roger, you adorable beast, I'm going to crush you the next time we're on court._ _Roger, darling, just you wait until the next time we share a locker room. I'm gonna talk to you until you can't stand up._ _Rogelllllllio, you cruel, cruel man, what does Pedrito have that I don't have?_ and so on, except for Montanes, who for reasons known only to himself chooses to recite the roster of the Ocean Racing Technology team. It still sounds ridiculously sexy, as well as sexily ridiculous, and Myla is gurgling happily, the way she does whenever she somehow senses that someone's talking about cars, which renders Roger even more helpless with both adoration and mirth.

There are also messages with Spanish subject headers from Roddick and Djokovic. Once he regains his powers of speech, Roger points them out to Mirka, saying, "I think we better save those until after the girls are asleep, just in case." Mirka nods emphatically.

**Saturday, November 21, 2009**

The morning brings more video spam from his peers. Marat doesn't even bother wearing a shirt, but simply mimes undoing a set of buttons while informing Roger of an exceptional custom handcuff-maker in Barcelona. Roger mutters, "TMI, Safin, TMI!" and moves on to Verdasco's offering -- which isn't a video, but a photo from a fashion magazine featuring Verdasco in a tux, with his tie undone, his shirt half-open, and a pair of handcuffs dangling from his left wrist. Mirka whistles appreciatively. Roger makes a face and forwards the picture to Marat.

In spite of himself, he's checked his private phone twice, and rechecked its settings to make sure he didn't somehow accidentally set it to "silent." There's been nothing from Rafa. Then again, why should there be? Rafa's in town for the same tournament Roger is -- they saw each other yesterday during the ATP photo shoot, and they're due to practice together in a few hours. Granted, Verdasco's also in London because of the Finals, but there's a world of difference between Number 2 and Number 8. No one's going to accuse Verdasco of underachieving if he goes home winless; there won't be rampant speculation about whether his career is already in its twilight.

Nor, come to think of it, is Verdasco spending the bulk of his waking hours with an older relative nearby. Roger tries to imagine Rafa videorecording any kind of pseudo-seductive message to him within potential earshot of Uncle Toni, jokey or not, and the sheer idea is so ludicrous that Roger mentally smacks himself for feeling disappointed in the first place. Of course he hasn't heard from Rafa.

**Sunday, November 22, 2009**

It's mid-afternoon. In a different wing of the players' posh hotel, Rafa's stretched out on his bed, keyboard in lap, mouth clamped around a new, not-yet-worn sock. He's learned to have one handy whenever he's about to open an e-mail from Mirka Federer: the woman has a wicked, sneaky sense of humor that shows up in, for example, her captions of the photographs she chooses to share with him.

It's been just over a year since she started sending them -- since Rafa's withdrawal from the previous Masters Cup, in fact. Her very first message had started out with, "Not dating, huh?" and Rafa bites down harder on the sock as he remembers the photos she attached to it: Roger on a hotel room bed, snuggling with a stuffed bull wearing a "RAFA" nametag.

There have been follow-up pictures: Roger sitting down to a candlelit dinner with the bull. Roger and the bull watching football together. Charlene trying to chomp on one of the bull's horns -- that time, Mirka's note had read, "Is she showing good taste? Or is she just waiting until she wins her own trophies to snack on?" That time, once he'd recovered, Rafa had picked up the phone and called her: "Mrs. Federer. You bother my stomach tear on purpose, no? For sure I laugh myself sick. I laugh too hard for stomach, your husband keeps Number 1. You are evil mastermind."

"You just now realized that?" Mirka had cheerfully replied. "The babies are a dead giveaway, you know. They are so obviously part of my grand scheme for world domination."

Affecting a solemn tone, Rafa had answered, "For sure I know that. You stop at nothing to make Roger Number One Brand of All Time. I tell Xisca, you good for her research."

"Rafa," Mirka had said, "all kidding aside. If Xisca ever does want my help with something, all she has to do is ask. I promise I won't be too busy for her. Got that?"

Rafa had hesitated, feeling suddenly out of his depth. "Ah. Okay, yes."

"Good," Mirka had said, ending the call with, "Take better care of yourself. Roger misses you."

_Roger misses you._ No longer laughing, Rafa pulls the sock out of his mouth and stares at his computer screen. He has a "Hi, I love London!" entry that he's agreed to draft and send to the _Times_, and he'd like to be done with it; he wants to watch the Group A singles later tonight, after reconnecting with his team for dinner; he's itching to give Fernando a hard time about the e-mail he's just read (_Buddy, you call that bedroom talk? No wonder Ana dumped you_).

More than any of these things, however, he wants to matter to Mirka and Roger as much as they matter to him. He wants to become the kind of friend close enough to be invited to the Federer children's weddings. The e-mails he receives from Mirka give him such hope -- she wouldn't be sending them if she didn't trust him. She wouldn't be staging pictures to make him laugh if she didn't like him. Forwarding him copies of all of the teasing Roger's received because of the Pedro Pinto interview -- that's something a sister would do, just for the satisfaction of teasing _him_, and the note Mirka sent with the zip file is exactly the kind of snark he would expect to get from an evil older sister:   


> _If all it takes is "a little bit of Spanish," why does it take you over four hours to beat him?_

Rereading the note for the sixteenth time since he received it, Rafa sighs. _An evil older sister_…who's married to the man he can't help wanting. On his more cynical days -- and lately, there have been more of those than before -- he figures he's been receiving the Mirka edition of Roger's famous "soft power." The get-well notes to Mario, James, and Sam; the words of encouragement to Ana and Sveta; the sweater to Serena, the shirt to Paul-Henri: over the years, Rafa's heard countless stories of Roger's acts of casual yet perfectly calibrated generosity -- many of those stories never reaching the ears of the media.

Rafa's aware of several cases that aren't even general knowledge among the other players, thanks to Mirka choosing to loop him in. Sometimes it's to nudge him into performing the kindness himself (always something he's happy to handle, once the suggestion's made), and sometimes he recognizes it as a strategic response to the chemistry simmering underneath his interactions with Roger: by deliberately cultivating a sibling-like dynamic between them -- by developing their own history of in-jokes and insights and off-the-radar collaborations -- Mirka's effectively maneuvered Rafa into the role of a kid brother, and a good kid brother wouldn't even _dream_ of going to bed with his sister's husband.

Even so, Rafa can't help what he wants. On his less cynical days, though -- the days he feels more like himself -- he views Mirka's friendship as a gift. What's between them is more than he's had any right to expect -- just like the career he's enjoyed so far. He's well aware that his 2009 would have been a dream year for any tennis player other than himself or Roger. He won a Slam. He won four Masters titles. He won the decider in first round Davis Cup. He stayed ranked in the Top 3 all year long, and he's in the World Finals. Thousands of players train as hard as he does and never come anywhere near such trophies, let alone within a single year. Look at Julien, just a couple weeks ago, sobbing in joy upon beating Roger _once_. Look at Roddick, sinking to his knees in a Wimbledon stairwell. Look at the other six men in London, none of their records close to what he and Roger have accomplished so far.

And look at the archive of messages from Mirka Federer. _I have so much. It doesn't feel like it right now, but look at what I have._ Rafa sits up, determined to stop feeling sorry for himself. His friends are great, his job is great, and he's in one of his favorite cities. He opens the file for his _Times_ blog entry, determined to sound as cheerful as he ought to be feeling. He types, _ I am really happy to be back here in London…_

**Monday, November 23, 2009**

It's the middle of the evening, and Roger's standing at a window in his hotel suite, gazing out at the Thames. Since his arrival in London, every dream he's woken up from has featured the presence of water -- not surprising at all, considering that the hotel's right by the river, the stadium's on a peninsula, and the players are being ferried back and forth via motorboats. Nor is it surprising that every dream has included Rafael Nadal: what with the long photo shoot Friday, the practice session on Saturday, and riding together to the arena yesterday and today, he's seen more of Rafa over the past four days than he has in the past four months.

The problem is, the dreams are frightening him: in each one, Rafa ends up drowning. In each one, Roger fails to reach him in time. On one level, it makes no sense: Rafa's the one into boating and fishing and jet-skiing; his humble persona notwithstanding, Rafa's also stubborn as a camel and wily as a shark. If Roger had to bet on anyone surviving trouble on the water, it would be Rafa, and he's hardly the first person Rafa would turn to for help, at sea or on land.

But the dreams are so real and so horrible that Roger has been waking up in tears, and that's been waking up Mirka as well -- and that's not acceptable, considering how the twins already interrupt her sleep at least half a dozen times a night. He can't let his nightmares interfere with their lives like that, and on a deeper level, Roger knows exactly what they're about: Rafa is floundering, and Roger can't help feeling that the lifeline's in his hands. More important, and more damning, Roger knows that he _wants_ to feel that way: he would love to matter that much to Rafa.

Roger stares out at the lights on the river: the sharp white contours of the Eye, the warm yellow glow bathing ancient bricks, the glittering Christmas-tree strands bedecking a nearby bridge. A half-hour earlier, he'd watched Rafa lose to Soderling, the electric blue of the arena bright on the high-definition television screen. Regardless of what Roger wants, he isn't at all certain he's what Rafa _needs_. If he tries to become anything more than just a friend, he's going to complicate Rafa's life. Possibly to an unforgivable degree.

Mirka's on the sofa, with Charlene on her lap. Myla's on the floor, her arms around a stuffed Volkswagen Beetle.

Roger says aloud to Mirka, "I don't want to screw him up. I don't want to screw _us_ up."

Mirka matter-of-factly replies, "You know I won't let you screw us up. As for Rafa, whatever you do, you're not going to make his playing any worse. I still can't believe he didn't challenge that call."

"Yeah, I don't understand what happened there."

"What's to understand? He's fried and he doesn't trust his own judgment anymore. That wasn't the only point he failed to follow through on."

"But is it really my job to fix that? Shouldn't I, you know, leave that to Toni and the rest of his team?"

Charlene tugs on Mirka's sleeve. Mirka obliges by holding up a palm, which Charlene happily pushes her wee fist against. "I'm not looking out for Rafa, dear. If you don't do something about the nightmares, you're going to end up sleeping on this couch, and that won't be good for your back."

Roger walks over to the couch and pretends to inspect its construction. Mirka chuckles, Charlene gurgles, and Myla sleepily tightens her arms around her Beetle. "It's not a bad couch," Roger declares, seating himself on the floor next to Myla. "But yeah, sleeping on it, not so good for the tennis."

"The nightmares, not so good for the tennis," Mirka reminds him. She adds, gently, "Rafa playing like an oven mitt, not good for your tennis either."

"True," Roger says. He lifts Myla and her Beetle onto his own lap. As she resettles herself against his stomach, a contented grunt escapes from her, and the noise makes Roger grin like a fool.

"So wonderful," he says to Mirka. "She's so expressive. Even though she can't even speak a word of German yet."

"Takes after her father," Mirka says, deadpan. "You're cute when you're incoherent."

As if to prove her point, the only response Roger can manage is a splutter of laughter.

"Might be true of her Uncle Rafa, too," Mirka continues. Roger's grin disappears.

After a moment, he looks down at his feet. "People do seem to trust me..."

"We've both proved that we know how to keep secrets," Mirka points out. "And you understand Rafa-speak better than anyone else on the Tour."

"I wouldn't say that. Even Murray speaks better Spanish --"

"_Roger_. Stubborn is okay, stupid is not. Do I need to start calling you 'Drop-shot' again?"

"No, no, anything but that!" Roger holds his hands up in surrender. Mirka immediately scoops up a phone from the end-table next to her and slaps it into one of Roger's palms.

Roger's fingers automatically close around the phone before he realizes what's happened. When he registers that Mirka had been waiting all along for the right moment to hand it to him, he shoots a wry smile at her before turning his attention to the touchpad.

> Not your best day at the office. Meet for breakfast, my room?

 

"There," he says, showing Mirka the screen. "A good start?"

She nods. "It'll do."

Roger punches the "send" key. After placing the phone out of Myla's reach, he leans back so that his cheek is resting against Mirka's knee.

"You really are the best wife ever," he murmurs against her skirt.

"I know," she serenely answers, stroking his hair. "As long as you never forget that, we're going to be fine."

**Tuesday, November 24, 2009**

It's a cloudy, chilly morning in London. Even inside, wholly dry and warm, Rafa feels an almost uncontrollable urge to shiver, and vicious irritation with himself for not being able to shake the sensation. Feeling affected by the cold -- it's as pointless as being afraid of the ocean, or the media, or sickness and death. Over-anticipating loss or discomfort is no way to live, and it doesn't win tennis matches, either.

It's all the more ridiculous considering he's in the middle of having breakfast with Roger Federer, in Roger's luxurious hotel room in a beautiful city overlooking a magnificent river. The food Rafa ordered for himself has been prepared perfectly, he's wearing a favorite t-shirt and an ancient pair of jeans, and Roger has been chatting with him about football, golf, cars, and motorcycles -- all topics dear to Rafa's heart, and Roger's adept enough at following his Spanglish that he doesn't have to exhaust himself trying to make himself understood. It is, in fact, a fantasy made real: if someone were to ask him to describe a perfect day, this would be right up there with all the possible ways to begin such a day.

But something's not right: Roger somehow looks as though he had a rough night, even though every hair is in place and his jaw immaculately shaved. He's paying close attention to everything Rafa says, his responses suitably engaged and appropriate, and yet Rafa can't shake the sense that Roger is somehow holding back, waiting for the right moment to drop a bombshell on him.

If Rafa's learned anything this year, it's how bad news can chew you up long before you find out for sure what it is. _The hell with that,_ he thinks.

An instant later, he silently curses how the thought must have flashed across his face, because Roger stops right in the middle of a sentence, and then asks, "Rafa, you okay? Did I just say something wrong?"

_When in doubt, serve to the backhand,_ Rafa reminds himself. "What are you waiting for me to know?" he blurts out.

"How --" Roger cuts himself off again, looking flustered and then rueful. "I shouldn't be surprised. You've always been able to read me better than anyone else on the Tour."

"Your tennis, yes. Your mind, no." It's all Rafa can do not to leap out of his chair and grab hold of Roger. Roger's rarely shy about saying what needs to be said; it's got to be something serious for him to approach the subject sideways instead of head-on. Rafa's stomach plummets as a possibility occurs to him. "Oh, no, no, no. You not about to tell me you retire?"

"No!" Roger utters the syllable as a sort of shocked laugh. "Far too early for me to call it a career, wouldn't you say?"

"I most definitely say." Rafa nods vigorously. "But if not retire, then what you not tell me?" Another horrible scenario makes his stomach flip. "You and Mirka -- everything okay?"

"Couldn't be better," Roger instantly answers. "She and the girls headed out to Covent Garden. She's meeting a friend at the car museum there."

Rafa can't tell if he imagined a hesitation before "a friend." He knows he's not imagining the tangle of relief and guilt he's feeling. Roger's studying him with an odd, tense expression on his face.

"What is it, then?" Rafa demands. "Murray grow balls to hit on you, and you too nice to say no?"

"No!" Another shocked laugh from Roger. "Unless you think 'round of tennis footie?' is Scottish code for 'fancy me naked?'?"

Rafa rolls his eyes. "Nothing code about it. I have no idea how Mirka copes with you."

"Hey!" Roger protests. "I'm amazingly low-maintenance, all things considered."

"Sure you are. Even before babies, you too much work for Mirka, I hear."

Roger flushes. "I did say 'all things considered.' "

"What does that even mean? Is dumb phrase. I could say, 'I'm playing pretty good, all things considered.' "

"Well," Roger begins, "all things considered, you weren't that bad last night." Rafa growls at him and looks around for something to throw.

Roger bats the plushie Beetle right back at him. "Okay, okay. I do see your point."

"Mirka is a saint," Rafa mutters. "I hope I'm as lucky as you someday."

Roger says, sharply, "Things not right between you and Xisca?"

"They're not bad," Rafa says.

" 'Not bad,' " Roger repeats, looking unconvinced. "You mean like, 'Not bad, all things considered' ?"

Rafa slumps back into his chair. "I do mean that."

"Can I ask what 'that' means, or would that be prying?"

Rafa sighs. "It means, things are okay. Xisca and me, we still have fun. Is good when we see each other. Everything is fine, everything is all right." He looks directly at Roger as he adds, "But everything is not enough, you know?"

Roger meets his stare. "For you, or for her?"

Trust Roger not to assume one or the other. "Yes. Is not enough for either of us." He gets up and goes to the window, looking out at the greys of the river and sky. "We talk, a lot, during my parents' breaking up. We ask each other, what about us, ten, twenty, thirty years from now? And we know, then, that we're not in each other's plans. No more than just friends would be." He pinches the hem of one of the curtains, his forefinger trailing along a tiny row of stitches. "Is not so sad. Is good to know this now. Is good to stay friends."

"You've been living with this since spring?" Roger says softly. "You are good with secrets."

Rafa's smile is bitter. "Is not a choice, no? Is not something I want to talk outside. Already always the questions about knees, about weight, about how more longer I can play. Is no their business if Xisca is girlfriend or just friend."

"Isn't mine, either. I'm sorry, Rafa."

"Don't be. I choose to tell you. I know you good with secrets too." Rafa drops the curtain and turns back to Roger, his expression hardening. "Sometimes too good. What is it you not saying to me? You think I can't take what you got?"

"It's not that at all!" Roger runs a hand through his hair, looking more tightly wound than Rafa's ever seen him. More tight than losing badly at Roland Garros, even.

"What the hell is it, then?" Rafa crosses back to Roger's chair, placing a hand on Roger's shoulder. "Fernando handcuffed to your bed and you lose the key?"

"No!" Roger's expression is both appalled and amused. "Do you really think I'd try anything like that without knowing how to pick locks?"

"Always with the preparation. Silly of me to forget. Well, then. Nike come up with stupid project and ask you to talk me into it?"

"I don't think they need my help when it comes to you. You realize those new shorts will make you look like you're wearing a waffle cone?"

"Is just clothes," Rafa says, enjoying Roger's instant recoil as he utters the heresy. "Designer say, with fruit-color shirt, women think me yummy."

"As if they needed any encouragement," Roger mutters.

"Not my fault you wear boring blue and brown."

"I get plenty of offers no matter what I wear, thank you very much."

"For sure," Rafa says, more brittle than he intended for it to sound. Roger's eyes widen.

Trying for the right tone, Rafa asks, "One of your groupies causing trouble? You gonna ask me to be, how do you say, decoy?"

"No! Good God, what kind of a guy do you think I am?"

"Right now, very frustrating one." Rafa bunches his hand into a fist and lightly punches Roger on the shoulder. "Serve it out already, Federer," he orders, noting Roger's odd flinch at hearing "Federer" instead of "Roger." "Over the net and at me: what is wrong with you?"

"It's nothing terrible," Roger mumbles. "Just incredibly stupid." He hauls in a deep breath and finally confesses, "I've been having bad dreams about you."

There's dead silence between them.

Rafa counts to ten as slowly as he can. Then he bursts out with, "That's _it_? That's all? How is me giving you nightmares any kind of news?"

"It shouldn't be!" Roger whips himself around and up, seizing Rafa by the shirt. "You're not supposed to matter to me this much! You've got plenty of people who love you -- who would go to hell and back for you. It's not my place to do that. It's not my place to want that. And yet, every time I fall asleep, it's _you_ I'm trying to save. Not my wife, not my girls, not my parents or my sister, but you. And every time I fail, and you're gone for good, and there's no forgiveness in the world for that, and it'll be all my fault for wanting you too much."

Reeling, Rafa demands, "What does Mirka say?"

Roger cracks a watery smile. "She said I shouldn't ever assume how you'll react. Something about me getting it wrong 13 times out of 20."

"You married a very smart woman." Rafa grabs Roger's arms, as much to steady himself as to keep Roger from flying to pieces. "What took you so long to get to it?"

Rafa's grip on him notwithstanding, Roger manages a semblance of a shrug. "Not high on the list for either of us. I didn't expect to like it as much as I do." His smile fades as he tightens his hold on Rafa's shirt. "It's never been only me in her life. That wouldn't be good for her _or_ me. There are parts of her life she doesn't share with me, like her friend she's meeting today. He's a good break from me, and yes, I admit it, way less work."

Rafa hoots at this, knowing it's precisely the reaction Roger hoped to draw from him. Roger continues, "It doesn't mean they aren't serious. She would do anything for him if he needed it. Just as she would for me, or the girls. Just as I would for you, and she knows that about me. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Rafa's head is spinning so hard that all of his English has deserted him. His mouth is so dry that he can barely get the words out even in Spanish. He finally manages, in Spanish, "You are saying she is fine with me and you like this?"

_Great, Rafa,_ he thinks. _Like_ that _was coherent_. But Roger seems to have understood what he meant, because he's leaning in, as if he's going to --

And then Roger lets go of him, bursting into laughter. For a heartstopping moment, Rafa thinks it's at him. _Oh, Jesus, least funniest joke ever. Roger, I will _end_ you for this_.

But then he realizes that it's just Roger being the biggest dork ever. _Probably dissolved into giggles when Mirka said yes._ Rafa eases forward so that his lips brush against Roger's left ear. "Idiot," he whispers in Spanish. "Moron. Dolt. Dunce. Knucklehead." He calls Roger all the names he can think of in Spanish, and adds a few more he's learned from their French and Serbian colleagues. Roger giggles helplessly and apologetically through it all, squeaking out an "Ow!" at one of the nastier epithets but otherwise wholly incapable of speech. He continues to shake with laughter as Rafa steers him back into his chair and hands him a napkin to mop up the tears streaming down his face. Roger waves a hand in thanks, tries to calm down, and then doubles over anew when Rafa can't resist saying just one more thing in Spanish, starting with "You gonna be okay?" and "Should've brought my camera" and going on to "How in the hell did you beat me in Madrid?"

Roger reacts to the last with a sort of outraged yet happy squawk, and Rafa finally takes pity on him, shutting up and waiting out the last of Roger's convulsions of mirth.

"Sorry," Roger eventually manages. "A bit nervous."

"I think so, yes," Rafa replies, in English. "And also not sleeping good."

"Yeah, that."

Rafa glances at the clock, as does Roger. Rafa grimaces. "I think there is no time."

"No, there isn't," Roger confirms, reluctance writ all over his face. "I've got meetings and PR stuff and practice. And so do you." Roger leans forward and lightly pinches Rafa's cheek. "You're cute when you pout."

"Am not pouting."

"Are too."

"Am not. Am annoyed. Is different."

"Such a hardship, being a star," Roger theatrically intones, and Rafa laughs in spite of himself. What he wouldn't give to ignore the world for another hour: he feels like he's raced through the emotional wattage of a Grand Slam final since sitting down to breakfast. It's _exhausting_ to feel this much, this deep, this fast -- and also exhilarating.

"No time," he says, trying to convince himself to leave.

"No." Roger gets to his feet and pulls Rafa up. "But later, we'll have time." Roger places his fingers against Rafa's mouth. "I don't even dare kiss you yet. I'm not sure I'd be able to stop."

"For sure, I couldn't," Rafa breathlessly agrees. He catches Roger's hand and presses a swift kiss against its knuckles. "Later, tonight?"

Roger nods. "I'll text you after my match, okay?"

Rafa squeezes Roger's hand, lets go of it, and leaves the suite before temptation gets the better of him. As the door clicks shut behind him, Rafa stands stock still, letting himself revel for just a moment in the way his lips and hands are tingling.

"WHOO!" he roars, pumping his fist. A low, incredulous, joyous laugh answers him from the other side of the door.

As he hurries to the exit by the stairs, Rafa thinks, _Stupid, Rafa, stupid. What if someone else heard that?_

_It's a hotel,_ the rational part of his brain counters. _Stray noises happen. No one's going to think anything of an odd, random shout._

Rafa shakes his head at himself as he runs down the stairs to the mezzanine. He can't afford to lose what's left of his calm -- at least not until the next time he gets to speak Spanish to Roger. By the time he slides into the chair across from his agent, he's wearing his polite celebrity face, ready to do business with the world.


	2. Days 6 and 7 (and Epilogue)

**Saturday, November 28, 2009**

It's well after sundown by the time Rafa hears the click-click of a keycard in the door. He's sitting in the living room of the Federers' hotel room suite; next to him, the nanny hits "pause" on the videogame they'd been playing.

Roger lost to Nikolay earlier in the afternoon, and he looks bone-tired as he walks through the door. Upon seeing Rafa, he stops in his tracks.

Mirka grins at Elisa -- the nanny -- and says to Rafa, "I warned you she was good."

Rafa mumbles back, "I believe you. Still no fun to lose."

Roger says to Rafa, "I thought you'd already left for Barcelona."

Mirka gestures toward the nursery with her head. Elisa nods, bounces up, and follows Mirka out of the room.

Rafa scowls at the door the women went through before turning to Roger. "Uncle Toni say, 'Your _friend _still in London? Then stay longer, catch morning flight. Whole team is better when you are happy.'"

"_Friend_, huh? Who does Toni think you're seeing?"

Rafa gives Roger a lopsided smile. "Ten minutes later, under my door, note and key from Mirka. I do not think is by chance."

"No," Roger echoes, taking Elisa's spot on the couch. He glances at the television screen and his eyes widen. "Holy cow. She really was kicking your ass."

"Yeah," Rafa says, sourly. "Not sad to stop. You opening the door, the timing very good." He waits a beat before adding, "On the court today? Not so much."

"Can't argue with that." Roger shrugs off his jacket and tosses it at a chair a few feet away. "It wasn't just today. All week -- even the matches I won -- things just weren't landing the way they should, you know? Not the serve, not the forehand, not the volleys -- nothing felt right."

Roger shucks off his shoes; one hits a leg of the chair, while the other lands right underneath the seat. "Anyway, my year is done, and off the court, I couldn't be happier."

"Glad to hear it," Mirka says briskly, re-entering the room. She's wearing her coat. "Don't wait up for me, my dears."

Roger smiles as she pecks him on the cheek. "Have fun."

"Bye, Rafa!" Elisa chirps, breezing through. "Hope to play you again soon!"

After the door shuts behind the two women, Rafa turns to Roger. "Explain?"

"Elisa's done for now. She lives here in town -- we'll hire her again for Wimbledon, I hope. Mirka, she's going to spend the night with her friend."

"Huh. I read somewhere you never spend evening apart."

"We don't." Roger's smile is sly. "We were together all this evening, you know, until we got here."

"So you were." Rafa leans closer to Roger. "You are playing game with the press."

"You could say that."

Rafa's own smile could melt butter. "I say you show me how to play your game."

"Not your style." Roger's fingers close in on Rafa's shirt. "You stick with smiling a lot and saying 'I don't understand' to anything you don't want to answer."

"In English, yes, I do that." Rafa's smile sharpens as Roger yanks his shirt off. "But in Spanish--"

The cry of a baby cuts him off. "Hold that thought," Roger orders, and disappears into the nursery before Rafa manages even to shut his mouth.

When Roger reappears, it's with one of the girls on his shoulder and an apologetic grimace. "I'm sorry. You would not believe how often this happens."

Rafa feigns disbelief. "You did not know babies cry a lot?"

"Of course I knew that." Roger drops back down onto the sofa, daughter cradled against him. "But I didn't really connect that to how often they interrupt…things."

"Things," Rafa murmurs. He knows exactly what Roger means by "things." The infant clinging to Roger's shoulder is proof of the "things" that Roger has enjoyed with Mirka for years.

It feels unexpectedly strange, to be reminded that Roger has sex regularly with someone else. To remember anew that Roger has been making love to her for years. Rafa knows this -- he knows that the new "things" he's enjoying with Roger changes nothing with Mirka. He would be aghast if they could.

But the fact that Roger's body belongs to Mirka is somehow more real to him right this moment. Rafa hugs himself: his body is trembling with thwarted anticipation, and Roger looks unhappy.

"I'm sorry," Roger repeats, his voice far more calm than his expression. "I… I wouldn't have set things up like this, you know."

"I do know," Rafa says. "You didn't even know I was still--" This time it's the other twin whose wail pierces the air.

Roger groans, rising to his feet. "Sorry. Be right back--"

Rafa stands up as well. "Gimme," he says, gesturing to the baby Roger's holding.

"Are you sure--" Roger begins, but an even louder wail decides matters for him. "Right. Here." He all but dumps the girl into Rafa's arms and bolts to the nursery.

Distressed by her sister's howls, the baby is shrieking like one of those crazy Russian girls on the Tour. Rafa lifts her up to his left shoulder, and she happily settles against it, although she continues to cry until her father reappears with her sister.

Roger hands Rafa a soft cloth. "To mop up the tears. And, uh, the other stuff Charlie's dripping onto you."

"Good thing you took my shirt off."

"I guess." Roger looks pained. "I… it's not yet midnight. My parents are still in town. I haven't told them yet, about you, but--"

"Calling your parents, out of the question," Rafa firmly states. "You don't call them when you want sex with Mirka, do you?"

"No, no, of course not!" Roger exclaims, looking scandalized. "But--"

"Mirka was knowing this would happen," Rafa points out. "This -- I am sure this is a test."

"Testing what? How much noise and snot you can handle?"

"Yes."

Rafa's seen that look on other players' faces, right after he's drilled back shots they weren't expecting him to field. When Roger speaks again, his voice cracks with emotion. "You _expected_ this?"

"No," Rafa says, sitting down and stretching out his legs. Charlene giggles as she slides down to his stomach; he props a hand against her side to keep her from slipping off. "No, not like this. This is better."

"I -- _better_?" Roger shakes his head, as if trying to rattle his wits back into place. It doesn't work. "What do you mean, better?"

They haven't had enough time together, Rafa thinks. They aren't going to get enough time together anytime soon. But Mirka had arranged their rendezvous the night before: the late-night sushi bar had featured a side entrance, a secluded tatami room, and an owner clearly familiar with accommodating customers in need of privacy. It was Mirka -- already in league with Toni -- who had then delayed Rafa's departure to Spain. It is Mirka who has set this up --

Rafa tells Roger, "Mirka would not do this if she was thinking I go away."

Still looking dumbfounded, Roger lifts up Rafa's feet so that he can sit down on the cushion beneath them. Rafa lets his feet fall into Roger's lap. Roger stares at them blankly, although a chuckle escapes from him when Rafa raises a foot back up to tap Myla lightly on the butt. Myla doesn't seem to mind -- the sound she makes at the contact also sounds like a chuckle.

"Us," Rafa says, softly. "Is not just, how do you say, fling? Is not only kisses and sex."

"Well, there's also the whole meeting each other on tennis courts thing."

"Is that, too. But it is even more. At least, I think -- I want it so." Rafa looks at Roger, happiness edged with uncertainty. "I want you tonight, sure. If that was all, then sure, call parents, or Mirka, or Elisa."

Roger carefully lowers Myla to his lap. Her little fists clutch the front of his shirt, but the rest of her sprawls across Rafa's feet. Roger's expression is openly dubious as he glances at Rafa. "This okay?"

Rafa nods. "Can't kiss you from here, but I can wait."

Roger rests an arm across Rafa's shins. "I guess that means I can wait, too."

Rafa addresses Charlene. "Make you deal. When you tall enough, I teach you golf. You will love it. Then you busy when I want 'things' with your father."

He says it to make Roger laugh, but when he looks up, Roger's eyes are wet. Alarmed, Rafa hastily sits up all the way -- and the sudden movement triggers squawks of protest from both of the twins.

"Sorry! Sorry!" Rafa apologizes to them both, although he doesn't lie back down. "It's -- Roger -- _what _\--"

"You didn't say anything wrong," Roger hurriedly says, even as the tears roll down. "I… I hadn't thought that far ahead, that's all. I… they're growing so fast already, every day. And when you said that -- that sounded so much like a promise --"

"It _is_ a promise," Rafa insists. "Can't be with them every day. Can't be with _you_ every day. Tennis to play, you know. But this is so much my dream already." Rafa's own eyes are damp.

"Really? What wild dreams you have," Roger shakily quips.

"The better to be with you with," Rafa answers, pressing his cheek against Roger's.

 

**Thursday, December 3, 2009**

It's the night before Davis Cup. Rafa plays the opening rubber tomorrow, against Tomas Berdych. The rest of the team is still hanging out in Feli's suite, but Rafa excused himself a couple hours ago, feeling the need for an extra round of stretching before going to bed early.

Yesterday, he posted "Ready!!!" to his Facebook page. And, he is, but alone in his room, he can admit to himself that he's ready mostly for the year to be over.

As tired as he feels, he still shouldn't have any trouble with Tomas: Tomas simply isn't in the same league. Tomas is barely in the top 20, in spite of how hard he hits and how well he moves, and he doesn't beat top 10 players. He hasn't beaten Rafa since Madrid 2006.

It doesn't mean Rafa will cruise to the win, as Tomas is very much like Fer and Feli, the way he somehow finds an extra gear for Davis Cup. But away from the microphones, and away from his friends -- away from the imperative to be humble and tactful -- Rafa knows the match is on his racket. If he loses, it will be because his body and brain currently lack his own extra gears.

He thinks of his friend Javier's aging Citroën -- a once-fantastic car that had been plagued with minor but badly-timed breakdowns and glitches during the past year. A year during which Javier had commuted regularly between his dying mother's house in Mallorca and his high-octane job in Madrid. The car received a new battery a few weeks ago, however, and Javier says it's been running much more like itself, although the stereo's still eating every third CD.

Rafa reaches for his phone and types a note to Roger: _Myla there? Was thinking of cars._

A second later, the phone rings. Roger says, "The girls are asleep, and Mirka too. You'll have to settle for just me tonight."

Rafa chuckles. "I do? I don't know. What to say to 'just' you?"

"To start, why aren't_ you_ asleep? Or, you know, practicing for your rematch with Elisa?"

"Not nice, Roger. Already I have dreams of her. Bad ones. Now you give me more?"

"All in a day's work, you know." Roger's flippant tone doesn't mask the concern underneath the kidding around. "Seriously, Rafa. Trouble sleeping?"

"A bit," Rafa admits. "Too much crazy. Today someone ask me about Tiger."

"Ah." Roger pauses. "_Too much crazy_ is a good way to describe it. Him. The whole mess."

"What you going to say when they ask you?"

"I don't know yet. I might call him first." Roger's laugh is mirthless. "After I stop being mad at him. I get too many bad questions already, you know?"

Rafa nods emphatically, in spite of the fact that Roger can't see him. "Is not me they should ask, either."

"No. Not fair to either of us." Rafa can practically see Roger's elegant shrug of resignation. The lift of shoulders that had been naked against his less than a week ago…

Rafa wants to ask, _What will you say next time you get questions about me? _but the words stick in his throat. Roger's been fielding stupid questions about their rivalry for years; Rafa doesn't want to remind him of the myriad reasons they _shouldn't _be involved.

Instead, he murmurs, in Spanish, "Nice shoulders."

Roger rewards him with a huff of laughter. "I'm not even going to ask."

"No? But I like when _you_ ask me things."

"Really? Well, then..." It comes at him like a sudden, vicious forehand: "Do I get to ask you to play less?"

Taken aback, Rafa snaps, "What? What kind of question is that? You no want to play me now?"

"Of course I want to play you! More fun to beat you when you're feeling good, idiot!"

"Oh." Rafa sags back into his chair. "True. More fun to win when not so hurt."

"Then why insist on Rotterdam?"

Rafa narrows his eyes. His 2010 schedule isn't public yet. "You sound like Uncle Toni."

"Well, I hear he knows a few things about tennis, you know?"

"Sometimes." There's a cushion jammed between Rafa's thigh and the side of his armchair; he fiddles with one of its tassels. "Is finally only me to decide, no?"

"So, decide to cut a few. Like, you know, the ones I'm not at?"

Roger's tone of loving exasperation is as warm as a familiar comforter. "Not my fault you don't have help for Davis Cup," Rafa teases.

"Hey, now, Stan has a gold medal. Things could be so much worse. Look at who Andy Murray's stuck with."

Rafa shouldn't feel this annoyed whenever Roger happens to mention Andy. Roger's simply talking shop: Andy is no more significant to Roger than Nikolay or Marin or Gael or any of the other guys who come up in their conversations. Rafa isn't bothered by Roger's admiration of Gilles Simon's piano chops. He's used to Roger's casually encyclopedic knowledge of other players, ranging from Rik De Voest's love of rugby to Mardy Fish's superstrict diet regimen ("I'm Swiss -- if I stopped eating cheese, my passport would get revoked").

Rafa loves how much Roger loves tennis, but in spite of everything they've said to each other so far, he's apprehensive about what that might mean for them ten years down the line: will Roger still find him worth making time for once he's no longer involved with the Tour? It's this un-confident part of him that bristles whenever Roger makes a reference to Andy Murray. Rafa knows he's being ridiculous. He doesn't even have anything against Andy -- at least, nothing he'd be willing to own up to out loud. It has something to do with the way Andy craves Roger's attention; Rafa likes to think of himself as a nice and fair guy, and it's not as if he doesn't understand what it's like to want to matter to Roger, but Andy somehow has a way of making his possessive streak kick into high gear: _**My** ranking. **My** rivalry. **My** Roger. Go find another vat of ice to sit in, and stay out of my way._

He's been too quiet too long. Roger's voice hesitantly breaks in on his thoughts. "Rafa? Did thinking of Murray bore you into falling asleep?"

Rafa hopes his laugh isn't as harsh as it sounds to his own ears. "Maybe I try that. Maybe more boring than sheep."

"Well, he_ is _Scottish," Roger says. "Maybe you could try counting Andys _and_ sheep."

Rafa winces. "Maybe I give up, turn on Playstation, practice after all." He tosses the cushion at the bed. "Or maybe I study some English. For sure I get sleepy then."

Roger says, sympathetically, "You just don't find it easy, do you? If I could -- aah, sorry, hold on." Rafa isn't sure what Roger does next with the phone -- the sound becomes kind of muffled, as if it was dropped onto a couch or into a pocket, but he can hear the cries of an unhappy baby regardless.

By the time Roger picks the phone back up, Rafa's shed his clothes and crawled underneath the covers of the bed. Roger tentatively asks, "Rafa? Still there?"

"Of course. You tell me 'hold on,' I hold."

Roger has the grace to sound embarrassed. "That was dumb of me. Next time, just hang up, you know?"

"Either way I wait, no? This way I hear something while I wait. Is no enough but more than nothing."

There's a charged silence for two, three beats, and then a desert-dry chuckle from the other end of the connection. Angrily wondering if Roger was even listening to him, Rafa demands, "Why you think that funny?"

"Do you have even the slightest idea of how much hate mail I get because of you?"

"What? How that kind of mail even reach you?"

"Oh, I don't see most of it," Roger says, "but the staff does keep track of what people want to say to me. They sent me some of the greatest hits for holiday reading. Also some of the bingo cards they made, of the most popular insults." Roger punctuates this news with another dry chuckle. "I now know how to call myself a 'smug, conceited, arrogant, corporate douchebag pansy' in six languages. And 'overrated crybaby scaredycat faker' in eight."

"'Faker'?" Rafa repeats softly. "I get that one too."

"Aren't _your_ people weeding that garbage out of your mail?"

"Mail is clean. Some sportswriters, though, they like to make dirt when they no find it, you know?"

"_Fuckers_," Roger hisses, adding several pungent French epithets for good measure. Then Rafa hears a hasty apology to Myla, accompanied by a flurry of soothing nonsense syllables.

It doesn't take long before she settles back down, and then Roger says to Rafa, "Sorry."

"Stop with the sorry. Is has to be, with kids, no?"

"Well, yeah, but you're only 23, you know. Doesn't seem fair to you, somehow."

"Is not like I live with you yet." The instant the "yet" slips out of his mouth, Rafa rolls over and plants his face directly into a pillow._ Idiot. Too pushy!_

After another loaded silence, Roger carefully says, "I won't hold you to that 'yet.' But I'd like to."

More to himself than to Roger, Rafa mutters, "Too soon."

"Probably," Roger says. "But nice to imagine anyway. Or at least some time on a beach somewhere, you know?"

In spite of himself, Rafa can't help saying, "Maybe I come to Switzerland?"

"Any time you want," Roger firmly replies. "Any time you can get away."

Rafa flops back onto his back, freeing an arm from the covers in order to punch the air with delight.

Roger sounds decidedly amused. "Whatever you just did -- I wish you'd had the camera on."

"Not much to see," Rafa replies.

"I would definitely disagree with that," Roger says. "But, you know, nice to imagine you in the dark, too."

Rafa laughs out loud, feeling his body sink deeper into the bed as he imagines sharing it with Roger. "You much better than tv."

"Huh. You really sleep with one on? Even before a match?"

"Does not hurt how I play you, no?"

"I guess not." Roger pauses. "And a tv won't talk about you later. What the _hell_ was Tiger thinking?"

Rafa doesn't get it either. He knows there are guys on the Tour with appetites like Tiger's -- some of the women, too. It's not like he himself lacks for offers. It's not even like he's a stranger to sexual hunger.

But the lies Tiger must have told if even half of the rumors are true -- Rafa can't imagine getting away with them. He can't think of anyone close to him who would let him get away with them. Even Xisca-- two days ago, they'd talked on the phone, and she'd known something was new as soon as he said, "How are you?"

And if he ever did stray out of bounds, he'd bet on reports of it somehow showing up on Mirka's BlackBerry before he even made it home. Wherever "home" might happen to be by then.

He says to Roger, "Myla still mad at you for the bad words?"

Roger answers, "It's not the swearing that got her riled, it was me being angry. Kids pick up when something's wrong, you know?"

"For sure I know." A yawn overtakes him.

"Sounds like I should let you go now," Roger says. The note of reluctance in his voice warms Rafa even more than the down duvet on top of him.

"Wait, wait, not yet. I talk to Myla first, ok?"

"Oh, that's right, she's who you wanted in the first place." Rafa hears Roger saying to the baby, "Sweetheart, you have a few minutes for Uncle Rafa? Tell him to have fun beating Berdych. … Okay, Rafa, I've got the phone right next to her. Go ahead."

Rafa grins and starts speaking in very rapid Spanish: "Hello, Myla. I'm sorry about earlier, but I'll be honest, it's nice to know your daddy cares about me. I hope that'll still be true after the next time I beat him."

There's a loud snort from the man in question. Rafa's grin widens, and he continues, "Now let me tell you about my friend Javier and his Citroën," and proceeds to tell her about the time Javier accidentally backed the car into a goat.

Myla periodically babbles back as though she's totally into the story. She's sounding way more self-possessed than her father, who's succumbed to a fresh fit of the giggles. Rafa isn't completely certain about why Roger's laughing this time -- it could be that Roger's Spanish is good enough to follow the anecdote, which _is_ very funny, or it could be that he finds Myla and Rafa's tele-camaraderie hilarious. Or, perhaps it's just Roger being incurably weird, because, seriously, who on earth cracks up like that just from hearing Spanish?

At any rate, for the moment, it's enough to hear Roger laughing; when Rafa finally turns off the phone, he falls asleep within seconds, smiling.

**Epilogue: October 2037**

[_Excerpt from a magazine profile of Charlene Federer, who celebrated her 28th birthday earlier this year by winning her sixth consecutive Evian Masters trophy. She turned pro at the age of twenty-two; her titles include an LPGA championship and three British Opens._]

**Interviewer: **Your father was already a multi-millionaire when you were born. You and your siblings could have easily coasted through life as partygoing rich kids, dabbling in a little modeling or acting or writing when you happened to feel like it. Yet you are all known in your fields as driven, focused, and incredibly hard-working. How do you explain that?

**CF: **The easy answer would be that it's genetic. Dad and Mom are both strong, intense people, and you can't be around them without wanting to do your best.

**Interviewer: **Was that a crazy amount of pressure to grow up with -- feeling like you couldn't be average and ordinary?

**CF: **Sure, of course it was. But, you know, Dad was already being called "The Greatest of All Time" before I was born. Average and ordinary was never going to be an option. The good thing was that Mom and Dad never pressured us to _be_ the very best -- they both are very aware that there are many things you can't control. And they both met too many deranged tennis parents over the years. I think they agreed early on to do their best not to make us hate them. [_laughs_]

**Interviewer: ** Yet, as a teenager, you were notorious for your shaved head, ratty clothes, mouthy attitude, and playing drums.

**CF: **That's also genetic. You know how there are video clips of my dad singing really badly, like during celebrations? My band footage can keep those videos company.

**Interviewer: **Were you deliberately trying to embarrass your parents?

**CF: **Pushing against them, anyway. Even when I was little I was known as the pushy one. Myla was the laid-back twin. [_laughs_]

**Interviewer: **Yet you went into golf - one of the most traditional, sedate sports still around - and Myla is the one setting Formula 2 records. How do you explain that?

**CF: **It isn't so strange once you actually think it through. Myla was always going to end up doing something with cars, and her personality's suited to it: teamwork is critical to every level of auto racing, even though the driver carries the most responsibility. Like my mother, Myla is very good at being in charge. People tend to underestimate her because she's very nice about it -- when she's not in a car, she's so girly they don't realize how fierce she is.

Golf is more like tennis - the combat is more direct. It is me, a stick, and a ball, and no excuses. I love that.

**Interviewer: **Earlier, you said that genetics was the "easier" answer. What's the not-so-easy answer?

**CF: ** When your second dad is Rafael Nadal, it is not humanly possible to be a slacker. He simply won't let you get away with it. Why do you think my rebellious phase was so high-energy? [_laughs_] Dad and Mom both have a "we're very disappointed in you" look that's very effective, but Uncle Rafa is in his own league. I promise you, you do not want to be in the headlights of the "Uncle Rafa Thinks You're a Lazy Loser" look.

And if you try to pretend you don't care anyway, he'll pretend that he's okay with that, but then he'll find some way to hang around you, like maybe working on his own golf swing, even with an imaginary club, and he'll practice it a hundred times and then a hundred more and then another hundred until it's driving you nuts and you agree to hit the links just to make him let up.

**Interviewer: **How did that work with the other kids? You're the only golfer in your generation.

**CF: **Yes, but I'm the one you're talking to. It's not for me to discuss what the others might or might not want to share, you know? I will say that we all had our bratty phases -- even Lu, who was always the little professor until he hit puberty.

[_Antoine Luthi Federer, 24, directs the charity started by his father. Originally named "The Roger Federer Foundation," the name was shortened to "The Federer Foundation" eight years ago, once it became clear that both Charlene and Myla were destined to become athletic superstars as well. -Ed_.]

**Interviewer: **Well, let's talk some more about you, then. Your Uncle Rafa no longer has to guilt you into practicing these days, obviously; how involved is he with your current career?

**CF: **He's tied for #1 fan with my grandmother Lynette.

**Interviewer: **Not your parents?

**CF: **They are the #2 fans. They've never played golf as much as Uncle Rafa and Grandmom, so they simply aren't as into it. That's probably one of the reasons I didn't drop it when I was a teenager, actually. Which once again proves they knew exactly what they were doing! [_laughs_]

**Interviewer: ** So what you're saying is, if Roger Federer had been more into golf when you were a child…

**CF: ** It would have become too uncool for me! [_laughing_] I would have switched to skiing instead! Or canoeing, or biathlon, or fencing…

**Interviewer: **But you have a great relationship with your parents now, it seems. In spite of their insufficient appreciation of golf.

**CF: **I never said it wasn't enough. You have to understand, these are my parents: Daddy being a #2 fan means he still knows more about golf than many of the reporters in the press room. [_OUCH! -Ed._] It means that he doesn't know as much about it as Uncle Rafa, but he will sometimes notice things that are causing problems for me before anyone else spots them.

**Interviewer: **Such as…?

**CF: **Oh, things like something a little bit different with my grip on a putter, or how I'm positioning my feet, or maybe something changed with my takeaway that I didn't change on purpose. He's got a good eye, you know, from the tennis. Also, things jump out at him more since he doesn't watch me as often.

**Interviewer: **You really don't have a problem with that?

**CF: **Dude, he may be Roger Federer, but even he can't be everywhere at once, you know? All of us kids know we have to share; it's not like any of us were ever only children. Also, to be frank, it's sometimes a relief when he's not right there to dissect your game--which, you know, he'll sometimes try to do before you've even had a cry or a beer, because he's all about figuring things out and fixing them. You can trust him to be totally honest, but sometimes you want to tell him to put a sock in it. Uncle Rafa's who you go to when you just want someone to hug you hard and tell you he knows you did your best.

**Interviewer: **It almost sounds like they've got a yin-yang act going on: your dad still very much the Maestro General after all these years, and your uncle the ultimate cheerleader.

**CF: **No, no, c'mon, it's not that simple. It's never been that simple. It's not like Dad and Mom supply just the ambition, and Uncle Rafa's not all smiles and hugs all the time. Dad never did even up their head-to-head, you know? And we were not a household where anyone "let" anyone else win, ever. Except maybe once in a while the younger ones, they might try to tank a pingpong or badminton game just to get it over with --

**Interviewer: **But then they would get The Look from Uncle Rafa, right?

**CF: **That's right. There was no escaping The Look.

**Interviewer: **Sounds super-fierce.

**CF: ** [_nodding_] Oh, believe me, it was. But that's how we all got to be as good as we are, you know? Because it was always love with the fierceness, and Mom, Dad, Rafa, they all made sure we always knew that. That always there would be pride and there would be love.


End file.
